


I was like smoke without the fire

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros stands aside at Losgar. As such actions go, it's remarkably inadequate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I was like smoke without the fire

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I hear Murder by Death’s “Ash”, I am always struck by the fact that it could’ve been written for Maedhros. A torch in my hand, and I knew I couldn't do this again! Brothers! I know where they’ve been! It’s the an explosion of manpain, with additional manpain as a propellant.  
> There's background Fingon/Maedhros, but it could be taken as friendship. (Well, it is friendship.)  
> Oh, and also, in honor of finally receiving my copy of The Peoples of Middle-earth, (i.e. the one volume of HoMe that everyone references), I’ve gone with the even more tragic version of events!

_I was like smoke without the fire._

 

I watch the ships burn on the beach at Losgar. Through the night — for it is always night now — the light from the fire must be visible for miles around. It must be visible across the water. The one I fought for — has he seen it by now? _I lost so badly, I would beg forgiveness, if only..._

Does he know himself to be betrayed?

Oh, but these are useless thoughts — I must not think them, not now, not here. I feel ridiculously exposed, and trod mostly into the dirt. I have been humiliated in more ways than one.

Ah but now, Macalaurë is singing. He has started a song that is terrible in its beauty. Like the fire itself, it crackles and roars into violent life. One by one, they join him in song. They are very proud, my brothers, and they sing this hymn to destruction with all possible energy.

I suppose Macalaurë, ever the artist, could not help but recognize this as a moment rife with artistic possibilities.

None of us _here_ can help our natures.

 

+

 

I close my eyes so I would not see what we had wrought here, my brothers and I.

What we have wrought here, my father and I, for the responsibility, the blame rests with us and between us. He has retreated back to his quarters, declaring that _now our true work can begin._ I am still here, still thinking of my part in this.

In truth, I am brooding.

Am I not the eldest of my brothers? Nelyafinwë is my father-name indeed, though it is rarely used. I am the Third Finwë, and second- in- command — now that first has fallen. Though in later years, it was often difficult to say who gave the commands and who obeyed — though between my father and my grandfather, it was always difficult to say.

Always, my grandfather acceded to my father’s wishes, right to the day that he died...

No.

These thoughts are disloyal thoughts, and so I must crush them. It is a force of habit, really. And a finely-honed one at that, to banish disloyalty — _to banish doubt_ — in this this way. After all, my one moment of rebellion has passed me by.

And yet, and yet, I did have it, that moment of rebellion. I did stand aside when madness took my father, when he ordered us to torch the ships.

I stood aside, and I protested.

My thoughts went out to Findekáno — first to him, _ever to him_. And then to the rest - _they have shed blood for us_ , they had come to our aid, _they are as cursed as we_....

I stood aside, though I knew it would do no good. There is a shrill part of my mind that screams out that I am _different_. _I am not like them! I stood aside!_

Valar help me, I stood aside.

No. They will not help me, never again.

 _I do not want their help._

I find that I must still rebel against something, anything.

 

+

 

The turmoil in my head is interrupted by shouts, the sound of fighting, and of someone pushing to the front. Without thinking, I reach out and grab a red and white streak spinning past me. I hold him fast, for it is Ambarussa. He screams at my touch, and yet still claws at me desperately. Is he trying to get away or pull me closer? It is a parody of my old role, of comforting older brother, that I trap my little brother in my arms. I do not know why this is happening, but I hold tight. I have a sudden fear that he will run to the fire, and throw himself in...

He struggles in my arm and turns to me. His eyes are wild and his mouth open, shouting. Flecks of spit hit me. He is mad. Perhaps madness is catching now...

“We have killed him!” he shouts at me. His desperate fingers digging into my skin, drawing blood. He rips at my willful incomprehension.

Ambarussa. Where two should be, there is only one.

Where is Ambarussa?

Where is...

All of my (still-living) brothers are shouting now, and join me in restraining the survivor. Tyelkormo is yelling into my ear, but I cannot hear him. Carnistir’s face is flushed as ever, dark red in the murky light, like he is doused in blood. (But then again, we all are.) Atarinkë is weeping, something I have not seen him do since he was a little child.

But soon we all fall silent, and watch the burned wreckage, gently bobbing in the surf.

It is also my brother’s pyre. Ambarussa burned while I stood aside.

 

There is no singing now.


End file.
